


displaced creatures: hidden

by jaythewriter



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Dimension Travel, Front Penetration, Oral Sex, Other, Trans Male Character, Weird Eldritch Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 03:38:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3753097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaythewriter/pseuds/jaythewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the bird longs for the world that is beyond his reach, and the dirt creature takes him into it, as much as they can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	displaced creatures: hidden

**Author's Note:**

> Well, uh, I couldn't resist posting it? So. If there's any triggers, lemme know, but I think I mostly covered it in the tags. Jay feels a bit of shame for what he gets up to in this, if that's something that bothers anyone and I know it does, so. There.

he dreams of being in a place outside his bedroom, away from safety. he dreams of roaming where he ought to not roam, into a home he swore he would never visit again, a home that can no longer be called such. it is a house, yes, but the signs of life that remain stink of rot and anger. 

this is a place where he belongs. why here, he has to wonder? while life beats fast inside of him, strumming a tune that he cannot ignore, he is not a figure of this place.

(does he want to be, is this a sick game of pretend, does he long for death?)

(parts of him, when he is laying in bed and stuck with his own wretched soul, he believes he does.)

tonight, death has come to him, stepped past him. he might as well not be there, sitting, staring in wonder at this creature of dark and hatred and malice. it does not meet his eyes-- it knows he does not belong here and thus does not acknowledge him.

instead it approaches his friend.

his friend, yes, his friend, he instinctively know they are linked to him, though he does not know how and he will not remember this link come morning. it is not time for him to know that the vessel his friend hides inside is closer to his heart than he can ever imagine.

can they be called his friend, fairly, when he sees them and longs to be like them? is it more appropriate to see it as admiration? he wants to linger along the lines that they toe upon, drift in the place that might be seen as death and rot when it is salvation and knowledge.

he receives a glimpse of that area, has the Earth ripped away from him, a page out of a notebook being stuffed into another for safekeeping. this is what he wants-- but he cannot help screaming. instinct, instinct is all he has, and his very base wants, his needs.

the boy needs the one of the moon white face, eyes black and hollow. so he takes their hand, no hesitance.

then he is reminded, he is painfully human and cannot remain in this place without feeling the consequences burrowing into his bones. he screams again, and it tapers off into a whimper, pathetic, human, a pathetic human, apathetic to his human needs and facing the results. 

closing his eyes, he blocks out his crying nerve endings, does what he does best and pretends that he didn’t severely fuck up. that’s his favorite hobby as of late. nope, nothing wrong with digging up those tapes again, nothing odd to be found, just some old tapes of his best friend, ex boyfriend, acting strange. 

gentle hands find him in this empty place, petting the hot from his face. his skull is cradled in a soft lap, preferable to the solid dirt that he was thrust upon. he allows his eyes to open again and take in the gaze fixed upon him, void in color. 

they are real. this place is real. it bears down on his fragile form, insisting on showing him that it is indeed real, real as he is. tree bark, dirt, rain, pushing into his brain and growing into a cloud that overtakes his senses, filling his nose and roaring in his ears.

“Am I dreaming?”

it is a stupid question but one he needs to ask. the hand that touches him when nobody else, nothing else has touched him in years, he needs it to be real.

the neutral black lips set onto the face he sees above him quirk up. 

they should not be able to do that.

“if you are dreaming, then that would mean i am not real.”

the voice is born of static and a song that is never sung anymore, perhaps to oneself when trapped alone in their bedroom. he wants to hear more, so he may answer the question of /how does such a voice exist/?

“I really hope I’m not dreaming then.”

(if they are not real, if the figure of hatred that passed by you and ate the air up until you could not breathe, then what is there to life? where is the magic hiding?)

their laugh is beautiful and horrifying, shaking the world. a stray bat flees the scene, spitting curses in its own language as it soars off to locate its cave mates.

“you were not so keen on me the first time we met.”

“Well, you… kind of attacked me.”

“you were in my home. what else was i meant to do?”

they have a point. but he does not concede it to them. instead, he sits up, unsteady, moving so that he can face the pallid face and look them on at the same level.

“What are you?”

their smile remains, but a slimy creature pushes from their lifted lips, wriggling with joy. it sneaks close to his face (when did he come near enough, that his knees are touching with theirs?), and flicks against his cheek.

“who wants to know?”

“I do,” he insists, leaning away from the weird wriggling tendril. it toys at his lips, eliciting a strange rise of heat from his insides. it is the sort of appendage a monster would have-- monsters mean magic, magic means life, he can find answers, salvation.

he leans back into its wet caress. shivers at the laving of his neck, shivers harder at the way it loops around his throat. no restriction of breath. just the threat of it.

“curious boys looking for answers best take a step back and realize the danger in what they are doing.”

his heart stutters when he catches a glimpse of sincere brown eyes under those black voids. 

“I know what I want. I have to find out what’s going on.”

the tongue upon his thrumming pulse releases him. those voids twinkle in amusement, and then they are close, breath, hot breath like a hot day that holds no relief for those that seek it, upon his lips and inside his mouth. he whines, hands coming up to take the ones that have claimed his shoulders but he does not fight, this is what he has dreamt of for years, coming this close to having magic eat him alive, swallow him, take him away.

lips on his neck, false lips, real lips, daring to nip at his veins and wanting to drain them. take him away, finally, he won’t have to worry about this human shell. 

then again, this shell, it is good for some things. 

he can feel the hands that were on his shoulders shoving down his clothing, revealing his skin to this cold and hard world. flesh, soft, vulnerable, he shudders, and lets himself be held against the ground. the forest floor holds him, safe. 

their long black tongue emerges from behind those ever grinning, ever knowing dark lips, and they taste him, stroking along his cock. he has to slap his hands to his mouth, contain his noises, cannot break, refuses to break so soon. in these empty woods, his noises would be the only noises, and the masked creature moves as a shadow would, sliding across the terrain and his own body like silk.

they stare him down, intent. pointed teeth sit behind the parted lips, teeth he didn’t know they had, and they find his thigh, nibbling. no intention of harm behind the action, but he yelps, unable to stifle it. that is what they wanted: for him to utter sound, respond to the lavishing tongue that returns to the heat between his legs and cry as it traces over nerve endings that have gone untouched for years.

a mask cannot have a tongue. it cannot have teeth and it cannot smile when its mouth has been carved to remain a smart grin. 

the lips that suck at him and the tongue that abuses where skin does not provide a shield from direct contact says otherwise.

his legs are off of the ground, up on strong shoulders instead of the dirt. shirt riding up, he covers his chest, nerves prickling-- he faintly recalls taking his binder off before bed, and he can breathe, heave air from his chest freely, he’s exposed but the creature does not notice. or does not care. a creature like this, face soft, lips feminine and body strong, why should it give any thought toward such things?

there are more limbs, trickling, not moving but flowing up his body, water against skin, but it is strong, firm, pushing him down so that he is subject to the masked one’s will. a something, something wonderful and writhing inches him open. the tongue stays where it is, pulling helpless noises of pleasure from his lungs. hands come down to squeeze at his chest and he arches, breath stuttering, unable to give a single thought to the stinging pressure inside him.

he begs, don’t stop, don’t, though there is clearly no intention of doing so. fingers keep kneading his chest, the-- something-- in him takes its time, and the black limbs that have come from the shadows push his arms above his head. 

vulnerable, legs parted, hands pinned, head back to let out the whimpers that refuse to be contained. he belongs to the monster that parts their lips and sinks their teeth into his exposed throat, sucking the life from him. 

the something between his thighs are gone, and in its place is their hips, grinding into him. a hardness teasing his entrance, bumping against his standing cock and eliciting weak gasps from his lungs. yes, he utters, do it, he can’t remember the last time-- was there ever a last time? 

(his first, with a monster, how fitting when he fell asleep to the sounds of static and imagined it overtaking him. humans were never good enough for him, too small and judgmental, taking one look at his body and running. trusting humans is difficult, when they’ve made him out to be the monster.)

(monsters see him and they see a creature that is willing to give up everything to them and claws come unsheathed, dig into him and eat him alive, and let him free again so that there may be a second time.)

he’s in their lap, legs straddling their waist, feeling hot skin against skin. the tendrils holding his arms back fold them against the low slope of his spine. air, he remembers he needs air, and he breathes deep, deep as the flesh pressing inside of him.

no time given to get used to it. their need is greater in their mind and they will take what they want from him-- and it isn’t as though he isn’t willing to give himself over. he sobs softly, head tilting back, permitting access to his neck. teeth, teeth, devouring him, scraping his throat. his hips buck to encourage more, faster, harder, use him. 

and they do use him, harsh calloused hands grasping his wrists and the wet smack of flesh on flesh growing louder. breathe, breathe, breathe, he has to remember to breathe but this creature is pushing their existence onto him and he’s going to break and he won’t need to breathe anymore. 

shadows are coming to consume him, surrounding their forms, and something hot is inside him when he reaches his end, shaking, overstimulated from the thick flesh in him. opening his eyes, he squints past the black, sees two faces. the pallid one that was between his thighs-- and a second beneath it, darker in color, jaw broken to show teeth, smiling teeth, and

He wakes.

The room spins around him, his bedroom, no woods, no trees, no monster loving him and taking him away. Jay coughs into his pillows, having fallen asleep face first, and his first thoughts are along the lines of needing clean pants. A chill is in the room, insisting on making him as uncomfortable as possible.

What a horrid night’s sleep. He could have sat up all night and felt better rested. Dreams are nice at the moment that they’re happening, but now, he has to hate himself. Magic, demons, monsters, hiding in the shadows: nice to think about, but in reality there are only people who have foul intentions in mind. 

Fucking idiot.

He rolls out of bed, body heavy, sore. Strangely sore. 

The camera is still set up on its stand, ready to be investigated.


End file.
